Rails
by senebe
Summary: The boys have to take a train. Sam isn't feeling well.


Dean notices it before Sam does. He doesn't say anything, but he picks up a bag of cough drops and a bottle of cold medicine from the drugstore.

Sam frowns, looks at Dean quizzically as he enters the Impala.

"For you," Dean explains, but tosses the bag in the backseat. "You're getting sick."

"What? No I'm not."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You are. I can hear it in your voice. Come on, get in. The bones aren't going to burn themselves."

It always starts up in his throat, an achy feeling when he swallows, but progresses into something constantly sore that worsens whenever he eats or drinks. Sam's stubborn about fluids during this stage, which Dean knows will make whatever illness he's fighting about five times worse.

"Drink up."

Sam looks at Dean, then at the bottle of water, then back at Dean again. His eyebrows crinkle as he unscrews the cap and finally obeys. He winces. Dean quickly gives him a pat on the shoulder. He'll be okay.

The sore throat doesn't let up for days, even when Sam's sinuses swell up and he loses his senses of taste and smell. But today they've got a case to work on at an old, supposedly haunted mansion that's so secluded that the only way to access it is by a four-hour train ride.

"How's your cold?" Dean asks when they pull into the station, although he already knows the answer.

"I'm okay," Sam replies vaguely, runs the back of his hand across his nose. He tries to inhale, tries to sniffle, but his nose just makes a little _snnk_ sound that says there's no way he's going to get any air through.

Dean palms his forehead, checking for fever, but Sam moves his head away with a bitchface and exits the car. Dean relaxes because he knows it means his brother's not feeling too bad yet, not really.

"Train leaves at nine," Dean announces, grabbing his bags and locking the car. "I figure we check in as guests, take a look around, gank the sucker and take the first train back tomorrow."

"D'you have the tickets?" Sam asks.

With a grin, Dean confirms that he does. They're in his pocket next to a pack of travel tissues (because he doesn't want Sam leaking all over the place, especially when they're going to be stranded on a train for two hours) and his car keys.

Dean hands them over to the conductor while Sam coughs into his sleeve.

"Poor thing," a young woman coos as she passes them to enter the car. She's carrying more than a couple suitcases, as well as some sort of box with holes on the sides and a pink blanket draped over it. "You make sure he takes something for that cough," she instructs Dean, then pats Sam's arm sympathetically and steps into the car.

The brothers exchange a look, raised eyebrows and exaggerated frowns, and then Dean shrugs because really, he's been trying to get Sam laid for how many months now? And of course he's got women falling into his lap when his nose is red and chapped and he's breathing exclusively through his mouth.

The train's whistle blows and they step hurriedly inside to find their seats. The train is obviously older; it's cramped inside, and Sam has to slouch to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling. When they sit down their shoulders are just barely touching –Dean accidentally elbows Sam in the ribs when he reaches into his pocket for a cough drop.

Instead of accepting it, however, Sam turns away to face the window and sneeze once, urgently. Then a second time. And a third, followed by a short pause before the fourth one hits, stifled between pinching fingers.

"Wow. Gesundheit," Dean says, and hands his brother a tissue instead. Sam doesn't usually start getting sneezing fits until the congestion lets up a little, and even then, it's never one after the other like this – they're always slow and torturous when he's got a cold, leaving him panting and stuffed up and sore. The quick, light and ticklish ones are usually reserved for…

"Hey, you allergic to something?"

"Feels allergic," Sam agrees and presses against his nose. Dean hands him another tissue. "Thanks."

"Wonder what it could be," Dean says. The train might be old, but it's not really dusty, and pollen season doesn't start for at least another month.

Sam shrugs and sneezes again, fast and light but powerful enough to pitch him forward, his head hitting the headrest of the seat in front of them. The backrest of the seat rocks a little, emitting a surprised noise from its inhabitant.

"Shit. Sorry."

The seat rock again, and the lady from before turns around, her eyebrows furrowed together like Sam's are when he's sympathizing with a victim.

"Bless you," she says, out of what Dean suspects is more than politeness. She sits up and leans over the headrest of her seat. "That's some cold! The New England weather getting to you?"

Sam sniffles and clears his throat. "I guess so," he answers, his eyes glistening a little. He clears his throat again, awkwardly, and smiles.

"It's been doing that to a lot of people," she says. "I'm Cindy. You're not from around here then?"

Sam starts to answer, but is interrupted by another sneeze, aimed into his wrist while he politely twists away from both his brother and Cindy. He stays still for a moment, and Dean can't tell if it's out of embarrassment or if he's just waiting to see if he'll sneeze again.

"Sorry. I think this is allergies, actually," he explains at last. "It—_huhhh_—" he presses a finger to the side of his nose, "—it wasn't this bad before."

"Oh no, poor thing. What are you allergic to?"

"Nothing you'd find on a train," Dean answers for Sam, who is busy sneezing once more. "Pollen, dust, cats—"

"Cats?" Cindy interrupts.

Dean's eyes become narrow. "Yeah. Why?"

"Oh no. I'm sorry. This is my fault." She pats something that's on the seat next to her. Mystery solved. "They're in a case but I'm sure their hair is all over my clothes… I've got a job at the mansion this weekend and couldn't find anyone to take care of them while I was gone. I can move." Her tone isn't malicious – it's nothing but apologetic, actually – and before Dean responds she's already standing up and packing her things.

"Thanks," Dean says. "Sorry, it's just – Sam's had problems with asthma before and he's already sick and sort of a mess—"

"No, no, of course. Of course. Don't worry about it! Feel better." Cindy's gone in a flash, bags in hand as she waddles through the skinny aisles toward the back in search of a vacant seat.

"You okay, Sammy?"

"M'good," Sam responds stuffily through a thick string of coughs. "Allergies aren't that bad anymore."

"Yeah, nice joke, Sam. Remember wheezing out of that old library three weeks ago? Or ragweed season in Texas last September? What about that time we sat behind a girl with cats on a train that one time, remember that?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Shut up. I'm sick."

"Thought you were _fine_."

"Whatever," answers Sam around a string of thick coughs.

"That's starting to sound like bronchitis," Dean says disapprovingly.

Sam shakes his head. "Asthma."

Shit. "You okay?" Dean asks again, a little more panicked now. Sam really hasn't had problems with asthma since high school, even during pollen season, so Dean hadn't thought much to worry about it this time – but Sam had never been this close to an allergen with his respiratory system already compromised, either.

"I'm…" Sam pauses to sneeze twice, soft but unrestrained. He groans afterword, probably more out of annoyance than pain, and slouches into his seat.

"Sam?"

"Don't feel good," Sam just murmurs, sounding like he did when he was six and had caught the flu. He coughs again, and Dean's heart sinks.

"Okay. Okay, here," he says and begins to rummage through his duffel with one hand while rubbing his brother's back with the other. He finds the bottle of antihistamines and pours out a couple of pills. "These'll help. You're okay, Sammy.

Can you breathe?"

"Yeah," Sam chokes out, takes the pills and swallows them dry. "These always make me…"

"Sleepy, I know. You need the rest anyways. We still have a few more hours to go."

Sam's head is already lolling to the side, his eyes half closed. The sudden relaxation is probably more placebo than anything; since there's no way the medicine's worked that quickly. He breathes in through his mouth, slowly but not desperately, and even with the slight wheeze Dean knows he's going to be fine.


End file.
